I dont even read the stuff i write. I just drink too much caffeine
This is why you won't ever change, and should just accept that this is the life you've chosen for yourself.
You ignore your inner dialogue that you claim to not have and your outer one.
Passed me to a stranger, she needed the money.
She hit me again and I want her to stop it
The place of my soul has grown microscopic
They take me on weekends and act like they care
I lived in fear, I was young, I was scared
The scars of my childhood have followed me here
The patterns repeat and they come back right here
She called me a whore,
the reason i did drugs was to mask facing reality,
the things that she did to me.
I just wanted to live life and escape, whatever hell this was that was my life
I never thought about the fact I could have it better, if I could just get out,
but I never could
I tried a lot of things, and it led me down a dark path.
When I was on my own, I had to do a lot of things for money
My uncle in New Orleans, had connections
I watched girls die, getting pimped out, one of them was my cousins
He was a heroin dealer. His father, my uncle’s father, a close family member was shot... point blank.
Because he was going to testify against the gang/pimp that, pimped out his daughter and got her murdered.
I was so, young. Making movies, for money. In NOLA.
I... made a life for myself but it wasn’t much. I slept on the hard wood floor of, an empty house, my uncle’s house.
It was abandoned by my family, the three of my family members (my uncle, my grandmother, and my aunt) (heroin addict, alcoholic, and ex-coke acid hippie who’s totally bat shit) they would argue over the house, incessantly. It never got anywhere.
The ex-coke hippie, aunt of mine, uh- she had a house in NOLA too, near my grandmothers and uncle’s. We had a great, spot, we could watch the Mardi Gras parades from our front door step.
I felt like I belonged there in a way, though it was dangerous and lonely, and really dirty, and gross.
There was beautiful character, music, art. Culture, food. Scenery.
I had a life there, it wasn’t much but, it was fun...
I wish I could show you the beautiful memories I had-
When my cousin and my grandfather died, all the family came to visit. Not my parents but, my cousin.
That’s when we decided to go to college, I got myself in but- I convinced her to get in too- and I took her with me. I told her the best chance you have of getting out of this hell hole of situation (her parents were divorced, it was messy, her life is even more fucked than mine is) I told her, go to school, get your goddamn degree and get the fuck outta here. It’s the only way. Come with me. Write your damn, entrance essay or whatever. Apply for scholarship you’re smart you got it.
And boom, we were off.
But, I had to support us, ya know. I told her, don’t worry about it. We both had to pay rent to live with my grandmother, because she wouldn’t let me squat in that house anymore. She said my uncle’s business was too dangerous I’ll end up getting shot. There was crime on our street daily...
my grandmother said, you gotta get outta that area come live with me it’s safer on this end, which- she was right. Far less crime. Everyone, dressed the same.
There was crime, but, it was.... in a certain community just past the railroad tracks.
I went there from time to time, to a salon...
I used to, run drugs for my uncle, basically. Is how I made my money. He had clients, it’s how he supported his habit... he was a dangerous guy. He told me not to touch the stuff but, of course I did. Once he’d given me a taste, what did he think i was going to do.
He knew, i would never leave his side. Once he gave me that, i was, his.
It was, abusive. But he pretended, to care for me.
I lived this odd life where... now if i lived it, i would be, scared. All the time. But, at the time its like, when you’re “in” it, it’s not that scary. I don’t know... i just, i didn’t think or feel anything. I don’t remember, feeling or thinking anything it’s like i was just, surviving. On auto-pilot. Sort of checked out or distanced from, the reality of what was going on.
That’s how I guess, I handled it was by being sort of buried, underneath all of it.
And on this outer shell was this much, tougher, more brave version of myself... just, fearless. And, unfeeling.
I made my way to San Francisco eventually on the west coast, as the story goes. And,... i uh... had a really interesting time there... i don’t remember much of it. I took pictures though, because i was still into that back then. Like, physical, polaroids and what not. And i had them all on my wall, of my grandmothers house.
One day i got really mad at her because she, physically started beating my cousin and. I just lost it, went back to my room and slammed the door and all the photos fell and i threw them everywhere. I just got really frustrated... um. Because i wanted, to hurt her but, i couldn’t, i wouldn’t- obviuously but, she would have called the cops on me anyway and blamed it all on me if i did. I knew this.
That’s always how it goes. You fight back? Call domestic on you, you’re fucked.
Some system we have.
But yeah... i uh... my life was just chaos. It was a mess. I was doing, a lot of shit to support, myself, and my cousin and... visiting the older members of my family as they were dying... and then, living this “student” life, so people would take care of me. Went to, everything i was told to go to. I’m working in a clinic, and attending youth group and Catholic Church, meanwhile, hustling drugs... back and forth... and sometimes struggling with a problem of my own. On top of this, i had a relationship. I had, many other involvements with the school, and my social life. School student life shit.
It’s like, i was living, so many lives. And i didn’t really feel like any of them were mine. Or my choice. I was just, forced to, to, survive.
And... yeah it all felt meaningless and, the stress, got to me. I started having like panic attacks. This was before i even knew what, they were. I had them before, I realize now, when I was young but, this time they were worse. Scarier.
And sometimes I’d just, take myself out, go past this rolling hills, find a spot alone, on this playground behind an abandoned church and... let myself cry. Let myself scream. Or just, sit there... I’d write a lot. Draw a lot during this time.. it was jut kind of a time to let my mind like, take a huge emotional shit. So that i could pack it all up and zip it up and put that all away during the week.
When i had to be, so many other things. For, myself, for others.
These people in my family, my “family” dont know, i was sleeping on the park benches or the floors of trap house. They don’t know, what happened to me during this time. They dont know, what my parents did to me. They just knew,t hints would get bad there and sometimes i needed to get out.
Extended family just seemed to sort of, pity me. They had me over for thanks giving because they felt bad, i had no where to go one year. And they just looked at me like, something dead the cat dragged in. “Poor thing.” But, that was the extent of what they could do for me. A plate of spaghetti. For some reason, they insisted on having that for thanks giving instead of turkey. A glass of sweet tea.
And then, out the door, out of their hair. I was pilot enough not to burden them with, my problems i just, didn’t say a word. They didn’t even know i was like, unraveling and coming unglued at the seems.
I...... these parts of my life feel so, faded. In my memory like, they go into darkness very easily and i dissociate from these years of my life. There are just huge chunks that, my brain chooses not to notice. In my, front of my conscious.
Because, it wasn’t, a good time. I mean, I got by. But.
I was so used to.... getting by, that, when I finally didn’t have to anymore? I... didn’t know how to respond to that. It like, made me feel almost like I was short circuiting. I Had a really hard time transitioning out of “survival” mode, to, just, being a human being.
Like, I didn’t even, feel like one.
So as I was “getting better” um, PTSD, takes on many shapes and forms and, mine shows in various ways but one of the ways is like, “oddities” so like, just, i was very quiet, tense, high strung, a lot of social distancing. I didn’t like, relax and casually socialize with people in rehab. I wasn’t even,a citing like myself yhou know... i wasn’t out going and having a good time.
You aren’t able to do that when you’re truly mentally unwell. You’re so lost in it... hard to explain but, it’s like something else is governing, who you are for a while. So i was just this more like, cardboard cut out version of myself, very hollow, very quiet. Always, listening for the pin drop in the hallway- when nothing was coming. Paranoid. Untrusting.
It changes you. Whether you want it to or not but, eventually I was able to slowly recover and like, melting butter in the microwave i became warmer, and loosened up a bit. Less high strung. Less, operating out of scarcity. More, willing to trust people. A little better. A little.
A lot happened after I left NOLA too obviously and that was... a lot.
Um.... Getting tired. But yeah. I’m just filling in more details because i feel like even though it was really long that last few posts i made were just grazing over the years in my life but weren’t filling in the full extent of shit i have to confront i went through and it’s why,... it just, it’s why. I’m so... idk..
like i forget all of it happened. Sometimes.
It’s 3am so i think i need to take a break
I dont know why trauma has to be so complicated
like part of me is like “so what, i had trauma oh well, now I’m here and ur fine like, just move on”
and then a part of me is like, “well you have underlying deep psychological issues that need to be unearthed and resolved for clarity’s sake in order to improve your mental health. So that they don’t continue to negatively effect your life and inhibit your functionality and happiness.”
And part of me just is driven to write about in order to feel, free. Like, i am freeing myself from it. Or, like, uh.... as cliche as that sounds but. Like, a sense of, doing something about it.,
like its sort like, when something really terrible happens and it just feels weird to just, sit there and be like everything is fine. Like it almost feels inappropriate.
That is how i felt for a very long time. People are like, “just let it go” but I’m like, no, like, so much happened i can’t just let it, go.
Idk. And like, i have honestly let *myself* go, because of this whole like “mental illness” thing like, you know in movies when you see a “dead beat” character that, it’s like, after life has already happened and run through them like a storm that hit a fucking shore line and it’s just, beat up and left to, play out like a record unattended. Just sort of... going and going, for no reason. Monotonously.
I am, in that *phase* of my life. At least that is how it *feels* to me, the human experiencing it, because, of the context of what happened to me, before now.
If things had gone differently, i likely wouldn’t feel that way. I would be, like one of those allergy med commercials like for Claritin where the screen wipes away all the dust in a swift digital overlay being removed or peeled back like a layer, and suddenly the, happier music plays and the, colors come to life on the screen and the, people smile and, are no longer looking like depressed hermits
... i don’t really know why everything had to happen the way it did, it all feels very random at this point for me now and, I’m struggling to make sense of it all.
It’s just too much for me to wrap my head around... and, it results in these, symptoms like, reflexes that are involuntary. Like muscle twitch. Panic attacks or, random dissociation. Bouts of depressed mood. Nightmares where I wake up screaming.
And it just, makes me weird. It makes me, not myself? Or my best self anyway.
I know, I have, PTSD that is clear but... I don’t, know how to reverse its effects. I think I’ve convinced myself all this journaling will help.
But, I don’t really know. I Never have known. Or maybe it’s just a comfort, as I am, passing through the processing period of it. I just, I really don’t know.
I think I am getting better though, slowly. It’s a, very slow, thing like. A computer booting up. Like,... super... gradual. Dragged out, across years.
Um.... Getting tired.
Not too tired to keep typing, apparently.
If you can type all of that then you can read, as you're already having to read what you're typing in that particular moment.
as much i am surprised that blanc writes all this bs im even more surprised that ppl read it
whats ur secret for attn span??
hilarious fake abuse stories are hilarious
1. My “story” is my actual life dude, it’s my actual, life.
2. The things I described happening to me really happened
3. Abuse isn’t fake (sorry to tell you)
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All I’ve done is try to talk about shit because, I’m freaking confused as hell man. I have so, much going on in my head all the time. All the meds have done, is *slow* it down, and lessen the blow of the “worst” thoughts.
I would explain it like layers, where there is layers of thought happening all the time, all at once, like a cake. But, it’s even more, confusing than this. And having this sort of even and defined structure, is a luxury I don’t have inside my head. It would be misleading to describe it this way.
But, thoughts that I would categorize if I could, as *the bottom layer* of like, suicidal, really fucking bad, emotionally weighted shit, that caused me massive amounts of horrific depression and other symptoms that just over all result in me, not being like myself in lots of little ways, or, result in me being a harm to myself, so- big ways too- the meds make all those thoughts dissapear.
Or, shelters my mind from them like a bubble or force field. Maybe they’re there and I just don’t notice them, or they can’t get in. Maybe it stops them from being created in the first place. I don’t know how medication works.
But yeah, that’s just the experience I’ve had on them. Which is why it does work for me and I should continue taking them.
Because without them, I might walk in front of a bus, or off a building.
So needless to say, they’ve been helpful. But, that doesn’t make my mind “perfect” by any means, it doesn’t “fix” me, or make me something I’m not.
My mind is still, in disarray.
This is why I’m confused... I have, so much going on at once that, I don’t really know what to fucking think anymore.
Diagnosed DID. Diagnosed Bipolar. Diagnosed Depression. Diagnosed ADD. And then the confusing symptoms of trauma like, identity confusion at times, dissociation, and panic attacks.
If you can’t tell, “mental illness” is taking over my life, and although I have all these professionals suggesting what I am, I still don’t know, at all, really. For sure. For certain. That any of them are even right, about anything.
Is this a form of denial, maybe.
And then, on top of that I’m trying to sort out my life, get on top of things. You know. But I feel, held back. By, the various blunders these mental illnesses lead me into. Pitfalls.
Bouts of depression, panic attacks, dissociation, leave me right back where I fucking started every time. I’m sort of, debilitated by it, and- even whenI try my absolute hardest not to be- not to *let* it be, it still, can.
Because it creeps up on you before you know it, has taken over your actions like a wave. And then you look back and go, oh wait- that was my mental illness cropping up against wasn’t it.
Or was it??
And there is this back and forth, and the line becomes blurred between, what is healthy, and what is unhealthy. What is justified, and real- and what is, just “mentally ill logic” or, “irrational”
and, on top of that, I have, inconsistency of self so like, and that’s the hardest thing for me to wrap my head around but. I can’t keep track of it no matter how hard I try.
By doing all of this “writing” (when i started all the way back in like 2016 was it? On OG SC)... I was sort of trying to have a sense of keeping track of things.
If you just write it all down, you’ve got it right?
I’ve been writing for three years and have still not been able to consistently keep track of myself, or fully understand, what is going on with myself.
I’ve been seeing therapists, and, these very serious disorders, are eluding them. While they look me in the face. And psych wards, even, are completely missing, crucial... mental disorders, that other psychiatrists see in me- in just, the blink of an eye.
It’s overwhelming, and, doubtful, in the scope of how, inaccurate everything has been it’s led me to have a great deal of uncertainty about *anything* anyone says about what is “wrong with me” or what I “need to do”
At this point, I don’t even know, what I should be focusing on- or what is the most optimal approach, to effectively create results with therapeutic approaches. And what results, is it, that I’m even wanting or expecting, are those results even possible?
All I can do, is babble about what’s on my mind to someone in a chair, and they just, observe and, think.
Is that really going anywhere? Is that really doing anything, or, anything good?
I do have faith in DBT, the 12 step program, ACA, trauma and the 12 steps. I do think these things can help.
But, are they, a solution? I don’t know.
Because I do not even know, what the problem is, for certain.
I can only tell you what I’ve had, of my experiences. And of that, only what I can fucking remember.
